


Only If for a Night

by Iknowthebattle



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Lady Bird (2017)
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, F/F, F/M, M/M, Queer Character, Queer Culture, Queer Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-03-30 02:51:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13941003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iknowthebattle/pseuds/Iknowthebattle
Summary: Another snapshot of Timmy/Saoirse. This time featuring Armie and Greta.3 parts.





	1. That a ghost should be so practical

**_New York, New York_ **

The invitations had been handmade, complete with Greta’s curvy handwriting and ribbon and gold and silver flakes sprinkled in a not-obnoxious amount on the front, back and inside of the card.

It was just the right amount of whimsical and rough around the edges.

_Your presence is not required, but very, very much appreciated this Sunday evening at 8pm. RSVP by showing up with a bottle (or two) of wine (or whiskey.) Seats will be assigned so please look for your name card on the table._

Then the address and instructions on how to buzz the apartment. As if she didn’t know.

Saoirse had no idea how many people had actually been invited. It sounded as if it would be a stampede of artists, designers, creative types, all somehow friends of Greta and Noah.

_Name cards?_

She wondered how it was possible to feel a surge of excitement alongside a hollow feeling of dread as she opened and read the invitation that had arrived in the mail in full.

She held up the card to Timothee over coffee the morning of the party. He held up the exact same invitation, opening it with his thumb and pinky finger like a teacher reading to their class. He had been carrying it in his back pocket to show to her.

“How does her handwriting look _exactly_ the same on both of them?” He asked in wonder.

Saoirse shook her head, downed her almond latte like it was the whiskey Greta had asked them to bring.

“It’s Greta,” was all she said.

Of course she was going; of course they were both going.

“Who else do you think is coming?”

Saoirse sighed, her face in her hands, elbows on the table between them, an elaborate pose of thinking, of mulling over every single detail.

“I haven’t a clue.”

Timothee reached across the table, rubbed her upper arm and let his hand slide down to lace her fingers with his.

“Do you wanna drink at my place before?”

“Abso- _fucking_ -lutley.”

~~~~

They rode the subway downtown together, hoarding one bottle of whiskey and one bottle of wine under their arms in brown paper bags, urban, hopeful, wanna-be hobos.

Timmy had deliberated on the type of whiskey, trying to remember what Armie had taught him about the difference in rye and bourbon, single barrel or not. He gave up and grabbed a bottle of Four Roses because it seemed big enough to bring to a dinner party. Saoirse selected a deep red wine, Malbec, spicy and full.

“I wish we knew what type of food was being served,” she muttered, paying at the counter with loose bills from her pocket, chipped fingernail polish and fingerless gloves so she could still use her phone.

Timmy shrugged. “I don’t think it matters.”

Saoirse looked at him. “Of course it matters. You’re French, you should know about wine and food pairings.”

Was she joking? Or just nervous and taking it out on him?

She seemed so adult next to him sometimes.

“I’m sure it’s a great wine.”

Saoirse rolled her eyes and burst out of the liquor store into cold sunshine, shielding her eyes.

“This way,” Timmy pointed to the subway, taking control again.

Now they rode in silence, Timmy looking up at the advertisements for dentists and dating apps above them, Saoirse looking down at her phone, pressing her thumb deep into the glass.

Without a word she took a tube of grapefruit chap stick out of her pocket (never a purse), and applied two, three coats to her lips and handed it to Timmy who took the tube without looking at her and put some on his own lips. They smacked at the same time and Timmy inhaled deeply.

“This makes me want a summer cocktail.”

“It makes me want summer,” Saoirse echoed quietly.

The train stopped and they hopped off, empty trains and empty sideways on a Sunday afternoon.

Saoirse knew where she was now, but still walked slowly and reached a hand out, wiggling her fingers for Timmy to take it. He did and they walked the few blocks to Greta’s building in the cold sun, their hair sticking up, a little greasy near the temple and base of their necks. The right wine and whiskey were important but they both knew no one would dare to dress up for a party at Greta’s.

Maybe a ball gown with Converse that was as far as it could go.

Saoirse buzzed and the door opened immediately, startling them both and Saoirse looked over her shoulder as she walked in.

“Fuck me,” she whispered.

Timmy pinched the skin on her hip, one step behind her on the stairs.

He knocked on the door and there was Greta’s voice, loud and happy calling, _Come in!_

They walked into the foyer, Timmy leading the way and he heard music, Simon and Garfunkel coming from a record player, most of the lights off or turned down low, candles all over the living room and kitchen.

Greta rushed over, grabbing Timmy first in a hug. She smelled like she had been cooking. She pulled back and looked over his shoulder, her gaze focused and soft.

“There you are,” she moved past him in the tiny space full of flower pots and shoes. He turned around to see her holding Saoirse, Saoirse closing her eyes, laying her head on Greta’s shoulder, hands at her mid and then lower back. Easy, comfortable.

“I’m glad you came.”

Saoirse nodded, her answer was muffled against Greta’s sweater.

Timmy looked away, into the living room, not belonging there all of a sudden.

“Where is everyone?” he asked into an empty room. “Noah?”

He was shrugging out of his coat, somewhat familiar with Greta’s apartment since he had been there once before. He had this strange ability to feel at home in any apartment in New York, as if some part of him had lived everywhere in zip codes on the island before.

He put his coat on the rack in the foyer where Saoirse and Greta still stood, talking in low tones, Greta rubbing Saoirse’s arms and he left quickly, knowing from the twin genes he shared with Saoirse that he needed to float away just for the time being.

Timmy turned the corner into the kitchen, and there was a figure standing at the kitchen sink, his back to him, holding a massive glass of wine, one hip jutted out, one hand on the counter.

The silhouette was familiar.

“Armie?”

Timmy heard how small his voice sounded. Not scared, not unhappy, but surprised as if he had seen a ghost that only visited on Halloween to grab sweet candies and play tricks on his lawn.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

This wasn’t in the script.

Timmy scrambled to remember his lines, his blocking. Did he walk over to him or wait to be summoned?

Armie turned around, smug smile, hand swallowing his wine glass whole.

Of course he belonged here, taking up all of the air in the room, big even in Texas and LA mansions, towering in galleries and theaters.

“Tim.”

The grown up version of his name. Not _Timmy,_ not the mockingly, sometimes endearing, _Tee-Mo-Tay._

_Tim._

“Armie.”

He laughed. “That’s me.”

Timmy nodded, smiled, hand through unclean hair. “Jesus, man. What are you doing here?”

Armie was in New York, competition for the tallest of tall buildings, racing the energy outside against his own restless stride and words.

“What? Am I not allowed in your city all of a sudden?”

Armie was moving toward him and Timmy almost turned and ran. He wanted to feel wild, chased after, not in a room, a pre-arranged meeting, a blind date with an old friend.

He wanted Armie to look for him, to find him underground, subway doors closing just before he could reach and grab him. He wanted Armie to see him on the carousel in Central Park, going in circles just fast enough so that he couldn’t be touched. He wanted to make Armie dizzy, light headed, frustrated with loss and just barely there-ness.

Instead he reached out and let Armie hug him, let himself hold Armie, put his head on Armie’s shoulder as he had seen Saoirse do. The twin genes won again.

“You look like you’ve seen a fucking ghost,” Armie’s voice was all laughter and air, pulling back but still holding onto Timmy’s shoulders.

“I did,” he said before he could stop himself. “I mean…I had no idea you were even in town. You didn’t text or…”

Armie shrugged. “It was last minute.”

“I invited him,” Greta and Saoirse were in the kitchen now, holding hands. Greta was smiling, happy.

Saoirse was looking at Timmy but he was looking nowhere but at Armie. He needed the unabridged version of the story of what he was doing here. _Don’t say work; don’t say you just felt like a trip to New York._

“But Elizabeth—“

“I’m looking at places while I’m out here,” Armie finished Timothee’s question for him. “For the show this summer.”

“Right. The show. She didn’t come with you?”

He wanted more. He was owed more than half-truths.

Armie shook his head. “Came a day early.”

“Dinner is almost ready,” Greta took her place at the stove, moving between the two men, pulling Saoirse alongside her, two female warriors moving between the fox holes of men.

Saoirse never stopped looking at her brother, eyes wide and shining and he watched her, telling her with his mind, his blood, _I’m drowning._

“Why don’t I pour some of the wine we bought?” Saoirse suggested and Greta pointed over to the counter.

“Sure, add it to the pile.”  Greta handed her a bottle opener with a kiss on the cheek.

Timothee’s injured insides churned with envy, how women could kiss and rub and touch one another under the guise of female friendship, of sisterhood.

_Here’s your bottle opener, here’s a kiss on the cheek, on the forehead, on the lips, let’s slow dance because that’s what sisters do, but not brothers, no, not brothers._

He watched Saoirse beam and glow under Greta’s touch and he took pleasure in knowing she was no more hers than Armie was his, and he hated himself for letting the shitty truth feel good.

He felt blood where he was biting the inside of his jaw.

Saoirse looked at the half dozen bottles lining the counter, a few already opened, and reached over to open their useless wine.

“I hope it’s good, I mean…I’m no wine expert, but I figure it’s all the same after the first bottle.” Saoirse was rambling, happy and buzzed already. Greta laughed so hard she snorted which made Saoirse giggle.

“It’s totally fine, I made spaghetti so any red wine is perfect.”

“Oh, thank God!” Saoirse poured 3 glasses almost to the brim. She handed Timmy his first, eyes on him, fingers touching around the stem of glass, the passing of some sacred chalice, some bravery, Holy Water. None of the wineglasses matched one another.

He knew what she was telling him.

_I see you._

Timothee wanted to bury himself under the pre-war building with the fallen natives and soldiers already there.

A fallen son of New York.

Armie walked over and picked up the bottle of Four Roses Timmy had chosen _(when had Saoirse and Greta somehow brought in both bottles? Had he left his body for that long?)_

Armie examined it closely beside a huge white candle on the counter.  

“This must be your work Chalamet.”

_So fucking formal tonight._

“Yeah, that’s all me,” His voice was sheepish, waiting on Armie to give his approval.

Armie nodded, twisting off the top. “Good shit.”

There it was. Timmy exhaled.

“What, are you gonna double fist it?” Timmy watched as Armie poured the deep, rich, whiskey into a sky blue mason jar, his wine glass right beside it, only half-empty. Timmy’s bones jolted with joy at Armie drinking something he had selected on his own.

“Why not?”  He turned around and looked at Timmy.

“You’re gonna help me drink it, aren’t you?”

Timmy laughed his first real laugh in hours.

“Shit yeah.”

Timothee knew he could never keep up with Armie, but he would rather drown in a puddle of whiskey and wine than claw up onto Armie’s island from an ocean of isolation.

Armie held up his mason jar turned whiskey glass and Timothee clinked his wine glass against it. Every toast felt like he was at a wedding.

“Wait!” Greta’s voice.

“You can’t cheers without us, and we have to do it at the table.”

Greta led them over to a solid oak table meant for 6, but the end leaf had been taken off and propped up in the corner by umbrellas and rain boots. There were only seats for 4.

“Is no one else coming?” Timothee asked, still innocent.

“Nope. This is it.” She ran her hand along the corner of the table. “This was my Grandma’s. I’ve been waiting for just the right occasion to use it.”

They all looked down, careful to stand where their name cards were placed, as if they were waiting for an entire room of people to join them. They were pretending this was a formal party, not a small dining room with a well-read California hippie, a queer Irish liberal, a soft, calloused lost boy from Manhattan and a mouthy, Island raised Texas rebel.

_Only room for 4._

Greta left them, scurrying out of the kitchen on bare feet to change the record. A click, static, a pause.

India Arie.

 “I feel like I’m having dinner with vampires,” Armie joked standing behind his chair. The table had mismatched plates, candles of all heights and widths melting into chipped plates at the center of the table.

“You are,” Greta said, returning to the room, taking her place at the head of the table. She held up her wine glass. Everyone followed.

Greta, the white witch had led them all here to eat and drink together, feminine ways of knowing running as a currency under her skin.

This was no accident, this was intentional magic. Timothee couldn’t help but marvel at her, at this. He settled into his place in the coven, witches, warlocks, and fairies.

“Here’s to a little gathering of people, who survived a not so little season of everything.”

Everyone was looking at her, glasses raised in mid-air.

Timmy felt like crying. This was what he always wanted; a grown-up dinner party with fellow actors, friends, with wine and music that always seemed out of his reach. Maybe they would talk about small art shows and galleries, or books he had only pretended to read up until now.

Maybe someone would ask him about French cinema and he could hold court for hours.

Everyone touched glasses, Timothee and Armie toasting one another last, again.

Saoirse and Greta toasted, smiling, sitting down next to one another, Timothee and Armie across from them, obeying the rules, sitting in their assigned seats.

“This looks amazing, Greta,” Armie’s voice was sincere, looking over the table with bowls full of spaghetti, fat meatballs on top, and three plates of crispy, buttered garlic bread.

“It was easy. Pasta’s always easy.” Greta was dishing out food for everyone, everyone passing around the bread plates silently, a family dinner, maybe it felt like a quiet Sabbath dinner with no lights on, only wax burning.

Everyone ate without ceremony now, no noises, only forks and knives scraping and throats swallowing wine.

Finally, “Jesus Christ, I was hungry.” Armie’s voice was more subdued, full and happy. He always calmed down when he had eaten.

Timmy stretched back in his chair, satisfied, titling the chair on its back two legs, a nasty habit from childhood. “I can’t believe how long it’s been since I’ve had a home cooked meal.”

Saoirse laughed, swirling her glass of wine around, big and proud. “You can go home at any time, you maniac.”

Timothee was still stretching, arms high above his head, his sweater pulled up, his thin waist and mid drift on full display. Armie reached over, ticking his rib cage, his thin, pale skin.

“Fuck you!” Timothee spat, laughing with a cherry red tongue and lips.

He started to fall backwards in his chair, eyes wide in terror and misjudgment for a half-second but Armie caught him, holding up the chair, setting him upright again with one arm, barely using half of his strength. Everyone at the table laughed, Timmy included.

“Fuck, you’re like a child,” Armie said, sweet, not mean.

“He needs round the clock care,” Saoirse said across the empty plates, half-burned candles.

Armie looked at her, curious. “Is that your job?”

Saoirse laughed, downed the rest of her wine. Greta was rubbing her neck, finished with her own second helping.

“You better fucking believe it.”

Armie studied her face for a long time.

“He’s in good hands then.”

Saoirse stared back. “That he is.”

Timmy cleared his throat, held up a newly opened bottle.

“More?” He asked the entire table. He wanted to play at being the host, the grown up.

He stood and poured wine into everyone’s willing, waiting glasses. Having a job always make him feel needed, important. He imagined his own dinner party would involve Chinese or Indian take out, shoved onto plates at the last minute. There would be cheap wine and warm vodka, not enough glasses or forks for everyone.

Greta made intimacy seem effortless.

Timmy wished he was a woman for a moment so that he could don an apron, pour wine, and serve pasta to guests, all with a flourish that seemed natural, a high pitched laugh that no one would make fun of, a casual air of being put upon but secretly loving every minute of people at their table, eating what they made with their hands.

When he sat back down, there was a hand running the length of his back, hitting spinal bones, guiding him, Armie’s hand.

“Don’t fall,” Armie said quietly, still looking at Saoirse.

Timmy nodded, fully in his chair now.

“I’m good.”

Armie’s hand was still on his back, now rubbing the spot between his shoulder blades.

Greta went to change the record again.

Billy Joel. Vienna.

She came back, laid her head on Saoirse’s shoulder.

“Anyone want dessert?” Her voice was light as air, sleepy, content.

“What on earth did you make?” Saoirse asked, her lips on the top of Greta’s head. Timmy wondered if now Greta’s hair would smell like Saoirse, like _their_ grapefruit chap stick.  

“Pineapple upside down cake.”

Saoirse laughed, delighted. “Fuck! My favorite!”

Greta pulled her close, arms around Saoirse’s waist.

They looked like wives, spouses, partners, used to dinner together, used to discussing desert and what the week ahead would be like over Sunday night books and television.

Timothee leaned into Armie’s massage. He had enough wine that he didn’t care. He wanted to look like partners too, comfortable…brothers…. _husbands?_

“Maybe in a bit,” Saoirse was leaning her head on Greta’s now, eyes closed, an alcohol lullaby. “My stomach can’t take much more good food.”

Timmy reached for his glass to replenish his nerve, to stretch the moment of hazy comfort, but Armie’s hand stopped him.

He looked at him, but Armie did nothing except hold his hand in place in mid-air beside the wine glass.

“Let’s go outside.”

“Outside?” Timmy was confused. “Like on the sidewalk?”

Armie laughed, “Like on the fire escape.”

“Oh…right, yeah.” Timmy laughed at himself, embarrassed Armie knew the landscape of  
Greta’s apartment better than him.

But that was Armie, always looking for an emergency exit, knowing how and where all windows and doors opened, counting the seconds it would take for him to shimmy down a ladder, to flee the scene of a social crime.

Armie got up, not letting go of Timmy’s hand, holding it now, not laced fingers but the other way, and Timmy felt his knees sway with pleasure, being led through the living room, past the record player, past the orange couch with yellow butterfly pillows, Armie’s long legs climbing easily in one move out of the half-raised window, standing to help Timmy through with both hands, a steady grip.

Timmy looked down, eleven floors up and he swayed, the slats under his feet weak with age, rusting with time.

“Whoa, you ok?” Armie was holding his shoulders.

Timmy nodded. “Yeah, man. Just…happy.”

Armie kept one arm on Timothee to balance him, just to be sure, reaching into his front jean pocket with the other, pulling out a plastic baggie, shaking it between them.

“Oh shit,” Timmy was smiling full on now, wine glow, Malbec drunk.

“I thought you’d like.”

Armie let go of Timmy, grabbed a lighter from deeper in his other front pocket. Timmy’s foggy mind wondered how deep Armie’s pockets went, was it like Narnia? Would a lion, a witch pop out soon? He was a Jewish kid, he had never read the books, but he sort of knew what they were about, enough to fake it if he had to.

He reached over, shoved his long fingers, all but his thumb and pinky into the tight pocket on Armie’s left side.

“I wanna see what else is in there…” Timothee mumbled, looking down at his awkward fingers, fingers he never knew what to do with.

Armie let him reach, touch, grab without a word.

He busied himself with rolling and lighting up a joint, thin, but full of sweet and sour smelling grass. Timothee’s hand was still in his pocket, resting there now, not moving, watching Armie, the artist, at work.

“You’re fucking good at this,” Timothee marveled.

Armie finished off the joint, licking the end, and lit up, putting it to his mouth, holding in the air. Timothee opened his mouth, bumping his hip up against Armie’s, needy, dizzy.

Armie leaned over, opening his mouth on top of Timmy’s, blowing the fragrant smoke into his mouth, between his lips, reaching up to close Timmy’s mouth with his hand.

“Hold it in.” A gentle command.

Timmy nodded. He knew what to do, but he liked being told, he liked letting Armie think this was all his idea.

Finally he exhaled through his nose, Armie watching, the thick, white smoke winding and crossing above his crown of curls, an angel on fire.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

Timothee looked at him, confused.

Armie nodded down to Timothee’s hand still in his pocket.

“Oh shit,” He took his hand out, but Armie grabbed his wrist, his hand nearly wrapping around it twice.

“I didn’t say stop.”

Timmy heard Florence and the Machine playing now, Greta switching to her IPhone and the Bluetooth speaker.

He closed his eyes, heard Armie take another hit. He whispered to Saoirse across their twin frequency, _I could fly._

He felt her answer, transmitted across their own little galaxy, feeling it in his thin blood and bones.

_Me too._


	2. And my body was bruised and I was set alight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after. Part 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Real life got in the way. xx

**_Part II_ **

The bedroom smelled like sex.

Two bodies, the covers pulled up to their shoulders and chins, lay nestled up in the king size bed between two windows. In the summer, the covers were usually on the floor, the window unit doing as much as it could. Soon there would be central air, finally.

Last night the covers were crumpled on the floor, but at around 4 a.m. four hands pulled them up onto the bed and around the once restless, now resting figures.

Now it was 10 a.m. and the bodies were asleep.

Breakfast would be lunch, pancakes and eggs with fruit.

Saoirse opened her eyes first, peeking out from under the duvet at the face across from her, sleeping soundly, so peacefully the features looked muscle-free, no nerve twitches, just soft breath in and out of a nose.

Saoirse blinked, once, twice and tried to guess where her phone went. She slowly turned in the bed… _no, not on the night stand._ There was a cool heaviness under her hip when she rolled back over.

There it was.

She reached down to retrieve it, bringing it up to bleary eyes and sleepy hands. No messages. She unlocked the screen, found a name in recent messages (where it always was), and shot off a text she had typed out a thousand times.

_< Where are you?>_

She heard the muffled ding in another room. They were here. She smiled, satisfied.

She placed the phone under the pillow, putting her head gently on top. She closed her eyes but she was no longer tired, couldn’t sleep.

Her hand reached across the space between herself and the sleeping body, and she put a single finger on a nose just once.

A twitch, a smile, a blink.

“You’re awake,” Saoirse’s voice was all early morning pleasure, weak and soft and groggy.

Greta laughed, covering her mouth with the duvet.

“I am now, thanks to you.”

Greta pulled Saoirse over, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, side by side, her hands on Saoirse’s back, rubbing slow, gentle circles from top to bottom.

“How on earth are you awake so early?”

Saoirse shrugged her hands in Greta’s hair that was shorter and shorter as time went by.

“I just woke up. Couldn’t sleep.”

They kissed, familiar.

“Mm, what time is it?” Greta yawned, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles.

“Around ten or so,” Saoirse’s voice was light, carefree, they had a whole day to spend just like this or however they wanted. This was fine by her.

Greta groaned. “Sersh…I wanted to sleep at least until noon.”

She put her head under the pillow and groaned again.

“I’m so tired!” Her voice was muted and Saoirse laughed.

“Come on now, it’s so rare we get a whole _day_ like this. Let’s enjoy it.”

Greta slid out from under the pillow, her hair askew, bed head at a whole new level of insanity. She kept one eye closed, staring down her bed partner, Greta propped up on one elbow.

“I thought we did,” A tease, a gentle voice. She pulled Saoirse on top of her.

“Well, that was last night…”

Greta laughed softly. “And maybe this morning….”

“Okay, okay, this morning.” Saoirse gave into their fake battle of wills. They were both victors.

This was a pattern, a habit by now. Noah knew. How could he not? He and Greta had conversations, and prided themselves on being some type of open-minded, liberal, urban-hippies, not quite open or poly, but certain people were the exception.

Saoirse was the exception.

Greta had told Noah she was in love with Saoirse and he said he knew. _No, I mean, really, I love her, Noah._ And _yes, I know, I heard you the first time,_ and _don’t you think I know what it’s like to love two people at the same time?_

Saoirse had ignored the part where Noah had ultimately chosen one love over the other when Greta had relayed the story to her over coffee one morning. All she heard was _yes, permission, freedom, no limits, no boundaries; I can see you as much as humanly possible._

Saoirse had no idea what else they talked about the rest of the time they sat in the coffee shop, but they had made love all over Greta’s apartment that Noah had left empty for just that reason.

They were lovers. Partners in a disconnected, long-distance way, half-way there. They shared secrets, but not whole lives. Saoirse was happy most of the time because when she was with Greta, she was _with_ her. It was not a secret, it was not a lie. It was not stolen moments, but fewer moments.

Perhaps she wanted more but who is to say? She lived far away and her life was in Ireland, at least the core of her was in Ireland, the part of her she could not forsake or let go of completely. Greta’s life was here. It was a patchwork quilt across the sea, across the Mother land and the Current Land and she was content to call both home for very different reasons.

She was young and self-aware. Most of the time, this all seemed very, very normal.

“You should visit me,” Saoirse said out of nowhere.

Greta nodded. “It’s in the works. I hope to be out there in the next couple of months.”

Saoirse didn’t try to hide her smile, top teeth covering her bottom lip in childlike joy.

“Alone?” No fear.

Greta rolled her eyes, nodded.

“Yes, alone. But maybe only a week?” It was not a question, but Greta lifted her voice at the end to make it seem like one.

Saoirse, still on top of her, tucked a piece of straw-like hair behind her ear; it snagged on her multiple ear piercings.

“That’s enough time to show you everything.”

Greta bit her lip, wanting to make another flirty comment, but it was too early, her brain not yet fully awake, so she kissed Saoirse instead, hard and deep, open mouthed.

Greta pulled back suddenly, eyes lit up.

“Do you remember that night we almost got tongue rings?”

Saoirse laughed; her face against Greta’s collarbone.

“God, we actually almost did it!”

Greta nodded, faux-solemn. “I still think we would both look super fucking hot with tongue rings.”

“I would get one if I wasn’t a fucking actor for a living!” Saoirse exclaimed as loud as she dared, not wanting to wake whatever bodies were sleeping nearby.

Greta laughed, pulling her head up to touch Saoirse’s collarbone now, kissing the tender skin there.

Saoirse looked at Greta now, eyes focused, serious. Her bones felt heavy, a reminder of her twin nearby, sending signals in his sleep. She could only be light as air for so long before she was brought back down to Earth by her other half, unusual bond and all. They shared joy and sorrow.

“Greta, what on earth is Armie doing here?”

Greta looked confused. “For Timmy.”  She said it as if it was simple math, 1 + 1=Armie and Timmy.

Saoirse rolled over now, still close to Greta, her hand propping up her head, supported by her elbow on the dark pink sheets, hand in Greta’s hair again.

“Right, I get that. But…why? I mean…what did you expect?”

Greta put her hand on Saoirse’s hip. “I like for everything in my world to make sense. I want everyone to be happy.”

“You say that like you control the universe!” Saoirse tried to seem jovial, but her voice was cloaked with a darker cape of doubt, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

“How did you even get his number?”

“Who?”

“Armie.”

Greta rubbed Saoirse’s neck now.

“Timmy. He gave it to me months ago. He probably doesn’t even remember.”

_He most defientley does remember._

“So why now? What was that dinner all about?” Saoirse was not afraid to put it all out there, to ask the questions Timmy would never ask, could never ask.

“Do you think this is some sort of trap, Sersh?” Greta laughed. “You give me too much credit!”

Saoirse shook her head, her eyes wandering down to Greta’s breasts.

“No, no, nothing like that I…” What did she want to know? She could ask the same questions to herself, to Greta, about what they had, but she needed to know what size net would be there to catch her brother right now.

“So, a party? A dinner party? Just the four of us?”

“Space.” Greta sat up in bed now, pulling Saoirse up with her. They held hands, legs crossed, facing one another.

“I held space for people who want to be together.”

Saoirse gave her a look. “I’m sorry but that’s bullshit, G. There has to be more to it than that.”

“I wanted you all here to be…whoever we can’t be elsewhere.”

Saoirse just looked at her.

“But you barely know Armie! Didn’t you worry he would feel like an outsider? I mean…”

What did she mean? She wanted Greta to tell her everything would be okay, that Timmy would be fine, not broken in two by a night with a man he had fallen in love with without fully understanding anything beyond that.

There had been other nights, she knew, but this was intentional, Greta pulling Armie into their world, alone. She knew he had to be alone in order to join their ranks.

“I promise you,” Greta’s voice was low now, forehead against Saoirse’s chest “I promise you my intentions were only good. I just wanted to give everyone something they wanted.”

She looked at Saoirse now.

“Can’t you understand that?”

Saoirse wanted to understand.

“I guess I just want to Timmy to be okay. You know how he is. You know….” Saoirse had no idea why she was whispering.

Greta nodded. “I want that too. But maybe it has to hurt first? Or maybe it has to feel really fucking good for a while before it starts to feel really fucking bad?”

“I think it likely already feels pretty damn bad from where he stands,” Saoirse said, her voice flat, looking towards the closed door. She wanted to go to him.

She knew Greta felt it, her energy shift. She squeezed both of her hands.

“Go wake him. I need to check email real quick.”

Saoirse kissed her on the cheek and climbed out of bed, slipping on Greta’s robe, green and fuzzy, before opening the bedroom door slowly, peeking out first before opening it wider, stepping out into the hallway and walking on bare, quiet feet into the living room.

The floor was cold and she wrapped and tied the robe tighter around her body while she found the living room where there were two bodies on the couch, a solitary pair of feet hanging off the edge, not enough energy or sobriety to make it to the guest bedroom so they were here, on display.

Saoirse stood in the hall for a long time, looking at them, her face peaking around the corner wall. She felt wicked, but satisfied with what she found.

Timmy was curled under Armie’s arm, almost in the fetal position, his back up against the couch. He was tucked up against him, his entire body bleeding into the shape of Armie’s giant shape. Armie of course did not fit onto Greta’s city apartment couch, his head on the arm rest, his feet hanging off the side, turned away from one another. Timmy’s feet were buried somewhere inside the couch to make way for Armie.

Saoirse looked at them, Timmy disappearing so that he could be close to Armie, closing in on his entire body, his entire shape. He took up no room of his own, Armie would have been lying the same way regardless, spread out far and wide, limbs everywhere. Sun bleached hair all over the fine fabric of a couch that had only known city dwellers with their pale skin and polluted hair and hands.

Saoirse gripped the phone in her hand. She saw Timmy’s phone on the back of the couch, her message never read, the buzz and alert never heard, the dreamscape was too vivid, too present, too now.

She unlocked her phone, raised it to eye level and moved in closer, just over the couch, and standing on her tip toes, took a photo. She didn’t feel intrusive. She knew she wanted it. She knew Timmy would want it, if he ever found out it existed.

Saoirse looked at her photo, and took another, this time, even closer, getting as close as she could to Timmy’s hand on Armie’s chest, curled, but lazy amongst the hairs, bright white next to sun loved, and slowly aging skin. It looked like a child’s hand on their father’s chest and she knew she would keep that thought to herself for all time.

There was a sound and a muffle and a light slam of something behind her and here was Greta, running at full speed down the hallway toward them, bare feet pounding on centuries old floors, a grin as big as anything on her face. 

Saoirse turned, one arm to catch her, but Greta sailed right past her to jump, to pile on top of Timmy and Armie in the midst of their slumber.  

Armie stirred first, barely bothered by the woman now on top of him. It seemed natural, just another part of waking up, another human in his space. Saoirse envied him.

He lay bare, wearing only boxers that were half down, zero shame in who saw what, when, who , why or how.

He knew he was safe, but also, he knew what people wanted to see, what they would look at. Saoirse looked at Greta instead now.

“Wake up knuckle heads!” Greta rubbed her nose into the side of Timmy’s neck, mimicking his own physical habit, his own inclination toward people he loved.

“Greta! Get off Armie!” Saoirse protested.

_You barely know him. Stop trying so hard._

Armie laughed a low rumble and now Timmy allowed himself to be awake, instantly joyous as soon as his eyes opened, hands and arms outstretched to welcome Greta, one hundred and twenty percent in his element, in a place of happiness and joy.

He was curled up next to Armie, and had Greta kissing his cheeks and forehead, Saoirse looking on, his other big sister, lover, spirit sibling, role model, twin. He almost wriggled out of his own skin at the sheer wonder of it. He was like a puppy, squirming beneath all of the love on top of and around him.

“Who wants pancakes?!” Greta was almost shouting now, clearly pleased that her dinner party had yielded the expected and desired results. She had indeed created space. A couch, endless bottles of wine, candles and locked doors had been a perfect witch’s brew.

“Timmy, are you _wearing_ my pajamas?”

Timmy looked down, lifting the side of the too big, pink pajamas decorated with sleeping cows, near his hip, as if he had forgotten all together, as if they had been shoved onto his body in haste and indecision.

“And they’re from the _dirty_ laundry!” Greta was laughing; tugging at the waist, pulling them down to tease and Timmy weakly fought her off.

“Well, this is certainly one way to wake up,” Armie’s voice was deep and echoing in the apartment, his hand on Timmy’s neck.

Saoirse stared at him.

“I didn’t want to wake you up and I didn’t know where anything was!” Timmy’s voice was almost a whine, but more of a shy confession and Saoirse smiled, melting inside and out, walking over to sit on the arm rest where Armie’s head rested.

“You two make quite a pretty picture.”

Armie and Timmy both looked up at her, blinking slowly.

She only looked at Timmy, his face flushed with everything good, hip bones jutting out of pajamas she had taken off of Greta with her own hands and Saoirse felt herself relax, she became happy, and even bent down to kiss them both on the forehead, a baptism for the man her brother loved.

They both closed their eyes to accept her affection, her secular, queer blessing.

Greta looked up at her from her place on Armie’s chest, a warm smile, soft and gentle. She reached up to tug on the collar of her own robe.

“Let’s eat.”

They broke bread (inhaled pancakes) and shared wine (too strong mimosas) at the communal table. A sunny morning in New York came into every window, pouring over their offerings, giving permission for the foursome to continue in their easy ecstasy.

Armie sat beside Saoirse, elbow to elbow, chairs bumped up against one another. There was no awkward conversation or movements, just half-dressed, relaxed words; mutual love for the same being was enough to link them for now. They shared one another’s after glow.

It felt natural, good to clean up the kitchen and put away the dishes together. Sometimes they worked in silence, sometimes talking and laughing over one another, Timmy pointing at someone when they said something he loved or agreed with, Greta showing Armie where the forks went, Saoirse squeezing lemon juice down the garbage disposal.

Soon Armie was due at the theater (he and Timmy had kept looking at the clock, at the time on their phones all morning, waiting for the spell to break) and Saoirse watched Timmy watch him get ready to leave, following him from room to room, asking a million questions, Armie going from patient to amusement to annoyed and back to being amused again.

“But you’ll stop by afterwards, right?”

She heard Timmy’s voice, small and quiet from the front foyer near the door as Armie was getting ready to leave. Greta had kissed him goodbye on the cheek and Saoirse had stood on tip toes to hug him. Timmy was right. She felt swallowed by him within seconds.

“Or…you could come to the bar after…few of us are going to…”

Saoirse couldn’t hear the rest but she heard Timmy laugh quietly, some shared joke between them and then sigh, and the sound of two bodies gripping onto one another, zippers and buttons colliding. She heard the door open and close gently.

 Timmy re-emerged into the living room, trudging over, feet dragging against the floor, placing himself between Saoirse and Greta, in the perfect Timmy sized space they had left for him on the couch. He stretched out in the small area, laying his head on Saoirse’s lap, his feet and calves stretched across Greta’s thighs.

“You ok pony?” Saoirse rubbed the top of his head, her other hand on his chest.

He nodded, curls on Saoirse’s skin, eyes on the ceiling. Greta was rubbing the top of his feet and his ankles.

“You’ve got it bad,” Greta said not unkindly.

Timmy nodded again, fingers crossed on top of his belly.

“But you’re seeing him tonight?”

“Yeah after rehearsal or some meeting I guess, with the cast. And then….”

Greta smiled, tiny. “And then?”  

Timmy turned his face to the side, burying his nose in Saoirse’s borrowed robe, smiling.

“Then he’s coming over to my place, I guess.”

Saoirse ran her fingers through his hair, knuckles caught on tiny knots.

“Oh, love.”

Another kiss on his forehead and the three of them lulled themselves into a hazy late morning half-sleep.

Timmy was staring up at the ceiling now, toes curled against Greta’s skin, day-dreaming, skywriting wishes on her roof.

~ ~ ~ ~

Saoirse and Timmy turned a corner, headed towards their (by now) favorite coffee shop. They had left Greta at home for a few hours to work, and she had left them alone to do what she knew they needed to do.

Timmy held the door open for Saoirse. They ordered and squeezed into the same side of a tiny booth near the window, facing the street, holding their third or fourth coffee of the day.

Saoirse swung her body sideways to face him, their knees touching.

“So.”

Timmy smirked. “So…”

“Oh, fuck _off.”_

Timmy laughed; glad to have her full attention.

“Go. Now.”

“Okay.” Timmy cleared his throat, loud and deep. “So after you and Greta disappeared…”

Now Saoirse smiled behind her cup.

“We…sort of made out on the couch for hours, well, we started on the fire escape.”

“You what?”

Timmy lowered his voice. Saoirse leaned in until their foreheads were almost touching, fused at last.

 “Armie went down on me on the fire escape?”

“What the fuck?”

“Then we crawled inside and had sex on the floor.”

_“Timothee.”_

“….aaaaand then the couch.”

“You two are like rabbits for fuck’s sake.”

Timmy shrugged. “He let me…come in his _mouth.”_  The last word was whispered.

Saoirse leaned back and covered her mouth with her free hand. She looked at him over the top of her fingers.

 “….Go on.”

Timmy was suddenly sheepish, looking out the window, shoving his hands between his knees.

“And all I could think was…I hope all of New York is seeing this.”

“You fucking pervert!”

“You should try it sometime.”

“What? Sucking your cock outside?”

“Shh!” Timmy put a finger to his own lips.

“Sersh!”

“Oh look who’s suddenly so bashful now, the nymphomaniac of Jane street.”

They both looked around the coffee shop.

“Tell me more.”

“Like….?”

“Like…who was on top?”

“Which time?”

“All the times?!”

“I’m not asking you about your night and that’s two women!”

Saoirse rolled her eyes. “Your loss. Now, talk.”  

“Well…”  Timmy took a long, purposeful sip. He knew what he was doing, the little asshole.

“Armie likes to take charge…”

“There’s a shocker.”

“Yeah, I know right?”

“So…Armie topped?”

Timmy looked away. “I mean…”

“Here we go.”

“There’s such a thing as…”

“Topping from the bottom?”

“What?”

Saoirse laughed. “Sorry, go on.”

“Okay. Well, it wasn’t like last time. I mean, when we were on the floor, it was…the usual position.”

“Usual? You’ve had sex with him _maybe_ three times.”

“Well, now it’s more like…seven.”

“So, you were on your knees on the floor…”

Timmy put his head down the table next to them. “I can’t believe we’re talking about this so casually.”

“How else would we talk about it?”

“I don’t know, code?”

Saoirse pulled Timmy’s head off the table using the back of his thin jacket. “Code? Like wiggle your left pinkie and that means you came first?”

Timmy just looked at her, trying not to smile.

“So yes, I was on my knees, on the floor.”

Saoirse was nodding slowly, taking it all in.

“And then on the couch…I was…on my back.”

“Slut!”

“Maybe. But a not-so-obvious one.”

“Sure, that’s a thing.”

“So I was on my back and…yeah….”  Timmy grinned. “It was fucking insane.”

“Did you feel like a girl?”

“I kinda did. A little bit. But man…it was intense. Like I think I blacked out at one point.”

“I think I’m blacking out now. Shit.”

“Yeah. I mean, when we’ve done it the usual way….on my knees…it’s fucking amazing and of course Armie likes that….”

“Of course,” Saoirse’s voice was flat, teasing.

“Sersh…”

“As long as you enjoy giving it to him—“

“I do.”

“Then, don’t let me stop you. Continue.”

“But on the couch, I could see him and I don’t know…his face…it’s how I always imagined it.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean…when I used to think about guys…being with guys. I wanted it that way, you know? Face to face.”  

“Right. Not ass in the air, gripping your hips, slamming into you.”

Timmy looked thoughtful. “No, that’s okay too.”

They both laughed, glad the coffee shop was still empty, even the barista had disappeared into the back on their phone.

“Jesus, you two you were so quiet.”

“You weren’t.”

“What?!”

“We _totally_ heard you guys. I could tell your sounds from Greta’s.”

“Fucking hell.”

“I know you!”

“Clearly!”

“I know the sounds you make during sex!” As if she didn’t get the point the first time.

“Fine.”

“Aw, Sersh. Come on.” He rubbed her shoulder.

Saoirse took a deep breath, happy with the information she had so far.

“I really am…happy for you. This is what you want. It’s what you always want.”

“Any chance I can get it.”

“But doesn’t that ever feel…?”

“Shitty?”

“Desperate.”

Timmy nodded. “Yeah but its not like I can’t get it somewhere else.”

“Well, no shit, me too. But…”

“But…”

They looked at one another now, understanding, not just on the same page, but co-authoring the same book.

“We’re fucked.”

Timmy nodded again. “In so many ways.”

They held hands under the table, across their knees. Saoirse kissed the tips of his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr; Iknowthebattle xx


	3. And although I was burning, you're the only light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I added a part 3 at the suggestion of Eva_Marlowe who wanted a bit of the story set in this universe from Armie's POV.  
> So here you are dear, I hope you enjoy. xx

_I want it like this._

That’s what Timmy had said to him after they had managed to crawl to the couch from the floor where they had laid panting, bleary eyed, looking up at the ceiling and then one another, hands on their stomachs, thighs touching.

There was a trail of tissues, bread crumbs of lust all across the living room left by them, a sex crazed Hansel and Gretel.

On the couch they had moved from sitting, to Timmy lying under him, his whole body between Armie’s legs and Armie had looked at him for a long time.

Timmy had gotten in this position, taken on this role, of his own volition. He had waited there, hesitant at first despite what they had just done outside and on the floor. He seemed unsure where to look, where to rest his hands. He seemed shy under Armie’s gaze this way, looking over at the row of windows and down to Armie’s chest, not meeting his eyes.

 _You sure?_  Armie had asked, tracing a finger from the bottom of Timmy’s throat down the middle of his torso, the tip of his finger resting inside his belly button.

Timmy nodded. He wanted something new. He had thought about this before, with Armie, with other men faceless and familiar.

 _I think I put my legs like this,_ Timmy whispered, wrapping his mile long limbs around Armie’s waist, drawing Armie closer with one, two pulls, little tugs that revealed a deeper confidence in what he was doing.

Armie nodded, hands on Timmy’s raised hips, letting him lead, telling Armie what to do. This was his fantasy and he was happy to indulge. Armie had not come across anything or anyone that was too much for him in bed. He never said no.

The way Timmy had looked at him…eyes wide open at first as he slid in, eyes closing when he got used to the position, then a small, satisfied smile, almost a smirk, when he saw the way Armie’s body reacted to this new way of having him, stomach tightening, eyes fluttering, hands gripping Timmy’s hips, then his knees, almost growling, drunk with pleasure as he went all the way in, claiming Timmy the way he had claimed women before he fully understood that not everyone wants to be owned.

He still didn’t know what Timmy wanted.

“How does that sound, Armie?”

Armie blinked. The stage manager was talking to him, the entire table looking his way. He realized he had not heard a single thing that had been said in the last 20 minutes.

He cleared his throat, blinked, coughed, took a too-long sip of water and laughed. “I think…whatever works. I’m open.”   Armie tapped his pen on the yellow legal pad in front of him where he hadn’t written down a single note before putting it behind his ear.

Apparently that was the right answer and Armie rubbed the sweat from the back of his neck. The room was freezing but he was all heat inside and out.

People who knew him best would have called him out for not showing up mentally, for being a thousand miles away but this was still a room full of strangers and acquaintances. He had time to hide.

He shook hands, offered a few one armed, pat on the back hugs and laughed too hard at jokes before making his escape. It was possible to be grateful as hell to be some place and desperate as fuck to get out at the same time.

The air felt like water in his lungs as he walked the sidewalk away from the theater, eyes moving side to side. What was he looking for? Armie took in everything that landed in his lens; cars, cameras, people rushing past. No one was paying attention to him today.

He forced his breathing to slow, walking with no direction, script in arm, hand in pocket. He could pretend he was just a New Yorker, a struggling actor walking home from another audition. His size and week old scruff usually gave him away. The more he tried to hide, the more he was seen.

But not today.

Today he stopped and got a latte, and then a bubble tea. He let himself walk and think, pretending he was going to buy a toy for Harper as a ruse to pee at a kid’s store.

He looked at his phone. It read 3:06 and there were two texts from Elizabeth sent 15 minutes ago. He let the screen go dark and returned the phone to his back pocket.

 The meeting had only taken an hour and he had been wandering the city for at least that long. Time lost meaning here even though everyone seemed driven, led blindly by it, forgetting why they were in a rush in the first place.

He stopped at a cross walk, pedestrians ignoring the light as always and chewed on his lower lip, trying to decide what to do as people divided and continued walking on either side. 

Armie took his phone out again. He went into his contacts and then his most recent messages.

He had never texted Greta until a few weeks ago when she had reached out first to invite him to a dinner party. He had not recognized the number attached to the New York area code that had popped up on his phone.

_< Hey it’s Greta! Timmy gave me your number a while back. How are you? I was going to mail an invite to you but realized I didn’t have your physical address or even your email address, but I remembered I had your number. I hope this is okay. Anyway! I’m having a dinner party in New York at my place and since I know you’ll be in New York soon….>_

The text was long and rambling in typical Greta fashion. He read it and was confused as hell at first. There were so many words that he had stopped reading half-way through, pausing only when he saw Timmy’s name.

He asked what the occasion was and who would be there before finally getting it out of Greta that the invite was just for him and she was inviting him because Timmy would be there and she wouldn’t say more than that.

She didn’t have to.

 Greta wanted him to be surprised but that was hard to do when there were flights to be booked, and stories to be told as to why he needed to head to New York a day early.

Armie had his laptop in front of him, balancing it on his lap, looking at flight times while texting Greta slowly with his left hand, unable to keep up with her speed.

He texted to let her know he had changed his flight, sent her a screen shot of his information. She responded gleefully with her address and a champagne emoji.

_< And please, please don’t say a word to Timmy!>_

_< Your secret’s safe with me>_

Armie had felt a rush, like he had gotten away with something. It was a feeling he had started chasing as a child that began with telling little white lies at school, then stealing a car at age ten and finally to knowing he was failing every class in college and telling his parents at Christmas he was dropping out to become an actor.

It was fun to keep a secret for a while.

And sometimes it was fun to come clean just to watch people’s reactions as their expectations fell, their hopes and dreams trembled around you.

But this had been easy enough. He told Elizabeth he was heading out a day early to get the lay of the land, narrow down their apartment options, and with the early afternoon meeting he had, he didn’t want to fly in the morning of and be exhausted. It all made perfect sense and was met with a nod but a warning not to make any decisions without her on an apartment.

He crossed his heart and hoped to die, giving her a big kiss on the cheek and began counting the hours.

Now he counted the hours again. Five until his family landed at JFK. Maybe another hour to get to the hotel. So, six. Six hours.

Armie sent Elizabeth a quick reply, said he couldn’t wait to see everyone and told her to text him when she got in, and pulled up his last string of texts to Timmy.

_< All done. Where are you?>_

The response came within seconds.

 _< Home.>_ Timmy sent the address in the Bronx. Armie looked at his subway app. Twenty minutes.

He got on the train, grateful for a seat and felt his eyes close as the train rocked and screeched along the tracks. He was tired. Lack of sleep was catching up with him. If it wasn’t the kids, it was staying up late to learn lines for three different projects, if it wasn’t work it was his own mind keeping him up, wired, turning over the same things again and again.

But last night it had been Timmy who kept him awake, in the flesh, in all ways, not just thoughts this time.

He’d had to force himself to turn off his body and sleep, making one last attempt to have what he needed by putting his mouth on Timmy again on the couch, pulling down the ridiculous pajama pants Timmy had taken from the laundry in case anyone woke up and came out into the living room.

 Timmy was half-asleep, laughing in a half-dream state and Armie felt his arms shaking as he balanced himself, mouth buried in pubic hair and wet skin. He had worn himself out, rung himself dry so he stopped, crawling up to sleep on a couch he did not fit on, Timmy curled up beside him like Harper did when she stayed up too late and fell asleep between him and Elizabeth.

Timmy was the opposite of half-asleep when Armie got to his building. Timmy came bopping downstairs instead of buzzing him up, and he opened the door, wide eyed, smiling, already half-way turned around to show Armie up the stairs, talking a mile a minute.

Armie smiled, walking up behind him, watching his spotless shoes supporting all of his unbundled energy. Then he watched Timmy’s thin, curved back disappear under his too-big white t-shirt, the ever-present necklace playing peek-a-boo between fabric and skin.

“I know you’ve been here once before but it’s been a while but it’s still pretty much the same,” Timmy shrugged, smiling, unlocking the door.

“Hey, it’s better than the place you had before,” Armie joked, walking in, Timmy holding the door for him.

Timmy rolled his eyes, tossed his keys on the counter.

“Yeah, yeah.” Timmy pointed at the fridge with both hands. “You want something to drink?”

Armie looked at the stainless steel fridge, so grown up compared to the tiny, white refrigerator in Timmy’s old apartment. It had been chockful of magnets and photos and scribbled notes between he and his roommates. Timmy’s new fridge had a single magnet on it (an Eifel Tower) and a printed out recipe for smoothies stuck under it.

“Maybe just some water if you got it.” Armie tossed his coat over a chair at the kitchen island.

“For sure. I don’t think either of us can handle more than that after last night,” Timmy was laughing, his voice high, his laugh wheezy.

“Right, right,” Armie laughed, watching Timmy pull out two glasses from the cabinet over the sink and fill them with tap water. He was so damn glad he did not pull out a fucking water filter from the fridge.

Timmy placed the glass down in front of Armie and stood drinking his own almost in one gulp, standing across from Armie, the island separating them.

“So,” Timmy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, curls sticking straight up on the back of his head. “How was the meeting?”

Armie shook his head, nodded toward the living area and Timmy followed, still talking, still asking about his day.

He sat down, parted his legs and looked up at Timmy who was standing beside him in front of the couch, still talking, this time about a movie he had seen at Metrograph and had Armie ever been to that theater and if not, Timmy could _totally_ take him some time, but Armie silenced him, shaking his head.

“I don’t want to talk about movies.” He reached out, tugged on the bottom of Timmy’s shirt.

“Come here.”  

Timmy moved to sit next to him but Armie shook his head again.

“No, no, no.”

He pulled Timmy onto his lap, half-crawling until Timmy was facing him, Timmy’s knees on the couch.

Armie put his hands on Timmy’s back, Timmy falling into, resting against Armie’s chest and stomach with his whole body, his head tucked under his neck, laying his temple on Armie’s shoulder.

“Jesus, Armie…”

 _Relief._ That’s what Armie felt, what Timmy’s words meant. They both exhaled from a place near the bottom of their lungs.

“I don’t have a whole lot of time…”

Timmy nodded.

There was no time to waste. Watching movies (cartoons or documentaries if it was Timmy’s turn to choose) or walking the streets (when they could do such a thing together) was never a waste of days or hours, but there was never much time to do things like this.

Armie let his hands fall up and down against Timmy’s back, rubbing gently at times, rougher at others. He wanted everything they did last night to happen all over again but he also wanted it frozen under glass, stilled in amber.

Timmy pushed his body against Armie, grinding lightly and Armie closed his eyes.

“Tim…”

He wasn’t sure what he meant by saying his name, and Timmy didn’t seem to care either, his back now straight, hands on the back of Armie’s head. For once, Armie had to look up to see him.

“You aren’t tired?” Armie’s voice was low, half-joking and Timmy shook his head.

“I can keep going.”

Something was set off inside Armie at Timmy’s words and he grabbed his hips and shoved him down onto his lap again.

Timmy was 22, already hard through his jeans, ready to go almost any time day or night. Armie once joked that when he was 22 he would have fucked a couch, a lamp post, and anything that breathed and Timmy had raised one eye brow and said _“anything?”_

Timmy’s hands were eager, reaching under Armie’s shirt to un-button his jeans, annoyed with the belt and the zipper, and anything getting in his way, huffing out little breaths of impatience.

Armie looked around and put a hand on Timmy’s wrist to stop him.

“Do you have anything? You know you can’t just sneak into Greta’s bathroom and grab something.”

Timmy was grinning.

He hopped up, walking the short distance to his bedroom. Armie heard a night stand drawer open and shut quickly and Tim re-appeared, holding up a bottle like he had won a prize.

“Are you serious? What 22 year old buys and keeps lube in their night stand drawer? Aren’t you supposed to be using Vaseline or conditioner?”

Timmy stood over Armie, forcing his legs open with his own.

“Who says I bought it just for me?”

Armie’s mouth opened but no sound came out.

Timmy shrugged. “I don’t need it with girls.”

Armie felt his face burning red, too many thoughts and images playing ping pong between his nerve endings. He wasn’t stupid enough to think he bought it just for him, for them.

“You little shit,” Armie said between clenched teeth, pulling Timmy down again, onto his lap.

Timmy actually giggled. “You have no idea what I get up to, Armie.”

Armie snatched the bottle from his hand, tossing it on the couch beside them.

“Clearly.”

Timmy sighed, rocking against Armie again.

“But it’s better with you.” He said it, his lips on the crown of Armie’s head.

Armie didn’t want to hear that and he reveled in it all at once. Angry and arrogant.

“But you already know that, don’t you?” Timmy was whispering, his hands down below, shoving Armie’s pants and boxers away from his hips and waist.

Armie looked down and up at Timmy’s face.

“It’s fucking _best_ with me,” Armie rumbled and Timmy’s head titled back, a smile from ear to ear.

“Hell yeah it is.”

Armie knew he was telling him the truth, not blowing smoke up his ass or boosting his ego.  Timmy didn’t need to make Armie feel better. Armie knew what he did in bed, on couches, in back seats, on floors, in shower stalls. He knew what he did to women, what men wanted to do to him.

Timmy had told him once he felt like he was having sex with a Ken Doll but with real, moving parts and Armie had laughed. He would have hated anyone else who said it to him, but coming out of Timmy’s mouth it was sweet, silly, true, and honest. Timmy had looked delighted when he said it.  

Timmy was taking off all of Armie’s clothes, socks and shoes while still fully dressed himself. They lay in a pile by the couch and Timmy stood back to look at him, all legs and sun lines on his IKEA couch.

“ _Fuck me_ ,” Timmy whispered.

It was Armie’s turn to smirk, arms folded behind his head, zero shame.

“What are you going to do now?”

Timmy’s eyes were glassy, lust filled, cheeks flushed, hands pale and fingernails purple as all the blood rushed to his stomach and dick.

Armie started to say something sarcastic, conceited, knowing how he looked like this, but Timmy dropped to his knees and put his mouth on Armie, silencing him save for the sharp intake of breath, and the non-voluntary act of reaching down to grab Timmy’s hair, black curls sprouting up between his fingers like spring time dirt.

They were both arrogant in their own ways; Timmy with his Gucci sweaters, repetitive hip hop songs and name brand suitcases, Armie cock sure and fiery because he knew how to read, how to work a room, knew how he looked and how he intimated people and how none of those people knew him at all.

Texas bravado and New York swagger.

Sometimes their dynamic was too smug bulls in a china shop, running into one another, like now. Armie tempting, Timmy shutting him up. They had met their match in one another.

But Armie felt like porcelain now under Timmy’s mouth, shattered.

He watched him go to work, no longer a novice, but still taking his time, making sure it was done right. Armie knew he did this with women too, going slow at first, working them up, they had talked about it, shared their techniques by way of flirting and bragging, turning one another on.

Timmy looked up at Armie, his dick tucked into the side of Timmy’s jaw, eyes watery.

“Can you take it all?”

Timmy nodded and Armie felt his chest become concave, heaving, forehead spotted with sweat, feet dug into the rug beneath them. He didn’t care how long it took or how many times Timmy had to stop, breathe and start again, he would wait.

He had stopped counting the hours.

 He had stopped pretending there would be time for takeout. He had already forgotten to ask Timmy if he wanted to have dinner with the family tonight. Armie didn’t care right now if Saoirse loved him or hated him, didn’t care if he had time for a shower after.

 The world outside of Timmy’s barely lived in apartment stopped spinning.

He knew after this Timmy would crawl into his lap and want to fuck that way, sitting on top, facing him, another new way, a weekend of firsts, still tallying up the things they had done and had yet to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr; Iknowthebattle xx


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